


Hands Full of Fire

by RunRabbitRun



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Casual Sex, Developing Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22732537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunRabbitRun/pseuds/RunRabbitRun
Summary: "Perhaps it’s because Faraday moves through the world like a prairie fire, or maybe its because Vasquez has always had a minor weakness for redheads, but the guero sets him off harder than a whole mountain of dynamite. "Or:Vasquez A., &  Faraday J. (1879). Sex as an Alternative to Confronting Your Emotions And The Perpetual Threat Of Death, An Ongoing Study.
Relationships: Joshua Faraday/Vasquez
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I ran out of Vasquez/Faraday fic, and by golly if you want something done right you gotta do it yourself. I also just want good things for Vasquez because he's my favorite.  
> 2) This is unbeta'd, and I am in no way, shape, or form a Spanish speaker. I have mainly been using Google Translate for Vasquez's colorful asides. If you spot a mistake please feel free to correct me.  
> 3) The working title for this fic was "Super Smash Cowboys Ultimate".  
> 4) There is brief suicidal ideation in this fic, but it's only in passing and at no point will anyone actually harm themselves.

Vasquez does not remember his first weeks on the run with any real clarity. He remembers tearing out of town, his stolen mare’s hooves pounding the earth beneath him, the soupy air of southern Texas clinging to him like a wet blanket. He imagined himself as a knife, cutting through the humidity, leaving a trail like a finger dragged through the mud. He’d ridden north, a split-second decision that probably saved his life. Every fiber of his being told him to go south, back home, back to family and friends who could hide him or at least buy him some time. 

That had made him pause. What would it _cost_ them? His elderly Tía Inez and his sisters would hide him, he knew that. They’d lie to the other farmers, to Rangers, to the very Devil himself to protect him, and it would destroy them. One way or another it would come back to bite them, wouldn’t it? Their existence was precarious enough as it was. No, he would not implicate them in his crime, in his _bull-headed stupidity_. 

So, north. 

Somewhere around Fredericksburg he swapped his stolen horse for a nondescript brown gelding, slipping like a ghost into a large stable on the edge of town and leaving with his new mount under the cover of the gray pre-dawn. He would feel guilty for abandoning his horse, but she was wearing under the pressure of flight and he could not risk her dying underneath him. So, he added another horse theft to his growing list of crimes and continued, with vague plans of heading for the Rockies. 

The rest is a blur. Hunger and thirst and fear, always fear, gnawing at his spine and keeping him from sleep. He was cold most of the time, and the few times he was warm he was filthy with sweat and dust of the trail. He hunted and foraged to feed himself, switched horses whenever he could, stealing or trading for provisions when he felt it wasn’t too risky. 

He doesn’t come back to himself until he trades a flighty young stallion for a steadier, lower-profile mare and is informed by the owner of the date.

March 23rd. He’s been on the run for over three months. 

Later, away from prying eyes and only his reflection in a creek for human company, he contemplates madness. His image in the water is faint, but he can still detect the hollowness of his cheeks, the wild tangle of his hair and beard. 

“What is the point?” he asks himself. 

The mare huffs into a patch of sweetgrass. 

“How do you feel about living wild out here, cariña?” he asks her.

She huffs again, plodding over to nuzzle him curiously. He pats her velvety nose, looking at his ghostly reflection in her dark eyes. Horses were smart; she could take care of herself out here. Hell, she’d probably just wander back to the old trading post where he’d acquired her. Suppose he lay down in this creek here, suppose he took the time to drop a sizeable rock on his skull first, suppose he just… stopped. 

Three months gone. He’d barely noticed.

In a way, the puma is a blessing. The mare alerts, her long ears suddenly erect, her placid eyes wild as she scents danger. 

The puma is young and small, a rare stroke of luck for him. It only takes one bullet through the chest to drop it from it’s wild pounce from the brush. Another in the eye put it out of its misery.

The mare dances in terror, yanking at her reins where he’d tied them ‘round a scraggly pine. Vasquez’s heart races in time with her frantic hoofbeats, staring down the barrel at the dead cat.

After a moment, he looks heavenwards.

“Very funny, Señor,” he growls, then laughs until tears soak his beard and he had to sit with his head between his knees for a few moments. 

The meat from the puma is strange and not to his taste, but it sustains him down into New Mexico. The pelt and the skull fetch a healthy price from a trader near Mesilla. This buys supplies from a passing wagon train as well as, most importantly, a thick saddle blanket and a few precious sugar lumps for Cariña, who saved his life. 

  
  


Four more months, three bounty hunters, two states, and one week-old corpse later, he finds himself speaking to God again, in similarly unamused tones.

He’s just getting used to life on the fringes, a sense of calm and routine settling over him, when he’s caught out by Sam Chisholm, _duly-sworn warrant officer etcetera etcetera etcetera_ , a man who wants him to dive headfirst into Hell in exchange for his freedom. Hilarious. 

“You prayin’?” Mrs. Cullen asks, as they ride down towards Junction City. He raises his head; he admires her briefly but keeps his gaze well above the steely posture of her shoulders. She’s a recent widow, after all, and his sainted Mamá would have his hide for ogling her.

He grins, “Our Lord has a funny sense of humor, yes?” 

“A cruel one, maybe,” she responds, bitter. She has not forgiven him for his use of the lasso, he guesses. 

“You seem to have risen to His challenges, Señora," he offers with a nod at the black bag strung about her fair shoulders. 

She smiles a little at that. 

"Never much liked turning the other cheek, as it were," she says, all pride and fire. Vasquez grins back at her. 

"I believe you," he agrees. 

Mrs. Cullen's smile goes a little rueful, but stays fixed in place. 

"I suspect you've done your fair share of rising to the challenge in your time," she says after a moment.

A few yards ahead of them, Chisholm guffaws.

"That's a hell of a way to describe our illustrious companion’s exploits," he calls back. "How many lawmen came before me, Vasquez? Two or three?"

He expects Mrs. Cullen to withdraw, but she only fixes him more thoroughly with that cold steel gaze, curiosity bald on her face. He could tell her, he supposes. It's not as though she holds him in any great esteem... but, no. He'll keep his secrets. 

"I am not so good at turning the other cheek either," he says simply.

Her eyes flash to his guns, nickel gleaming in the sunlight. He smiles his best lady-killing smile and spurs Cariña to catch up with Chisholm. 

  
  


Perhaps it’s because Faraday moves through the world like a prairie fire, or maybe its because Vasquez has always had a minor weakness for redheads, but the guero sets him off harder than a whole mountain of dynamite. 

When they meet, he seems a bit drunk, sliding off his horse like a wet rag. He sets eyes on Vasquez and flings a string of butchered spanish that would be offensive if he weren't so obviously compensating for something. 

"Strong words for a drunkard, you think?" he mutters as Mr. Chisholm pulls him away from Faraday. 

"Hush up," Chisholm says, chuckling. "He's all talk."

"Why'd you bring a... a hot-temper like him on this thing, hm?" Vasquez asks, keeping his voice down.

"He's got his uses," Chisholm says. "Quick with a gun. He gave me some cover in a tight spot without even knowing who I was."

Vasquez wants to ask for the story behind _that_ story but Chisholm pats him heartily on the back and adds,

"Anyway, I figured he couldn't be much more of a risk than _you_ are, hoss."

And, well, he's not wrong.

That would be the end of it, but Faraday is handsome and has the audacity to be charming when he's not being an idiot. They travel together for nearly four days before they reach their destination, picking up a mad mountain man and a Comanche youth to add to their makeshift battalion. 

They are a merry band, as Goodnight Robicheaux puts it. Vasquez is accustomed to working with motley groups, but this has to be the strangest one yet. He's surprised and then relieved to be enjoying the company of his fellow man. His status as an outlaw means very little to these people, even Mrs. Cullen and her watchful companion, Teddy Q. It seems to Vasquez that a little murder, robbery, and horse theft isn’t worth mentioning amoung these fellows. 

During this time Faraday smiles, chatters, and does card tricks, of all things. He shares his cigarillos and gin, joking in a way that dances right up to the knife-edge of friendliness. He reminds Vasquez of the surly barn cats of his youth; open to a stroke behind the ear, but just as liable to rake you with their claws.

"Mighty flashy for a supposed outlaw, ain'tcha?" he asks during a break in their journey. "Do you expect to bedazzle the lawmen on your tail and escape while they're still blinded?" He points to Vasquez's embellished guns, one of the first things he bought for himself when he had a real, reliable paycheck.

"You have an eye for quality," Vasquez responds as he walks in loose circles to stretch his legs, idly checking Cariña’s tack as he goes. "I have a reputation to uphold. Dashing bandido and all that."

"Does that gaudy-ass belt buckle alert the ladies to your reputation?" he says, giving Vasquez's nether regions a pointed look before cackling like a rooster.

"Women like shiny," Vasquez says, tapping the silver buckle, a keepsake from his late father. _Men like it too,_ he thinks to himself, letting his gaze flick over the tilt of Faraday's hips. "Maybe you have more success if you clean up a bit yourself, guero."

Faraday leers and gropes at his own tarnished buckle, smiling with all his teeth. "Not all of us need to rely on false advertising, hom-bray." 

Another time, Faraday saunters up on his devil horse and asks, loud enough that it makes Vasquez flinch in the saddle:

"So, how'd Sam lure you out of the brush anyway, com-par-dray? Bribery? Or did he steal your horse out from under you too?"

"Not so much, no. I'm under a different kind of contract. Teddy tells me you lost your evil animal there in a wager and Sam had to buy him back for you."

"This _evil animal_ of mine has saved my life more than once, so maybe give him a little respect," Faraday says, eyes glinting like ice chips despite the easy grin he wears. "Can you say that much for your little filly there?"

"I can, in fact," he says, ruffling Cariña's mane. "She's a good girl, and I don't have to feed her on human meat, unlike that one," he nods at Wild Jack. The stallion had attempted to take a bite out of him that morning and he’d had a brief spat with Faraday about it. 

"Best watch yourself, friend," Faraday says with a laugh, "Those long shanks of yours could feed him for a day or two."

Vasquez laughs at that, taking the joke at face value, but then Wild Jack chooses that moment to nip at Cariña's flanks. She lets out a sharp cry and stumbles away, forcing Vasquez to cling to the saddle horn and hunker down to keep his seat.

Faraday, unrepentant, laughs out loud while Vasquez shoots him a poisonous glare. 

"Mind your goddamn horse, pendejo," he spits.

Faraday only laughs harder.

It goes on like this for the entire trip, roses and thorns in equal measure. 

Vasquez watches him as he gets Cariña settled one early evening, at their last campsite before they finally reach the fabled Rose Creek. Faraday flickers around as they make camp, one moment jawing with Chisholm, the next jovially needling Robicheaux and his sullen companion. He’s funny and he knows it, which makes Vasquez want to wallop him in his stupid, handsome, smiling face. The fact that he mainly spends his jokes on the others also stokes a simmering feeling in his gut that he ashamedly recognizes as _jealousy_. 

God, his sisters were right. He’s an idiot. He likes people who _rile him up_ . There was Lupita, who made a point of dancing with every boy at the church socials _except_ himself. After her there was Anamaria, who vacillated between flirting rather shamelessly and picking on every insecurity he’d had as a sixteen-year-old. Later, when he’d started working away from home, there’d been Andrew, who was the best rider Vasquez ever met and hadn’t been shy about letting everyone know it. He’d taught Vasquez a thing or two about horses and men before he dropped him like so much refuse and took a job somewhere back east. 

Andrew had been small and dark with a sweet face belying a ferocious temper. He and Faraday look nothing alike, but Vasquez thinks they could have been brothers, for how much the latter reminds him of the former. 

Vasquez spits furiously and curses Faraday, Sam Chisholm, and his own brainless manhood. He does not need this nonsense right now. 

The place where they're camping resembles a short, shallow arroyo, edged on one side by a sandstone bluff. It's a favored site for travellers, with an ashy firepit already laid out. The bluff provides a good windbreak and blocks the lancing rays of the sun as it sets. It also provides a bit of privacy when Vasquez climbs around to the other side so he can relieve himself away from the view of Mrs. Cullen. 

He does his business, relishing the brief quiet. His travelling companions are a talkative bunch. It's a pleasant change, after so long deliberately avoiding other people, but he feels out of practice. 

"Well, hello there _Alex_."

Vasquez finishes buttoning up his fly and turns to see Faraday clamoring over the side of the bluff.

"Hello yourself, _Josué_."

"Ho-soo-ey," Faraday tests the word slowly, then shakes his head. "Sounds like a sneeze."

"Don't blame me, blame your mother for naming you."

"'Least my ma gave me a name and not a tongue-twister, Aley-han-dro."

"I regret giving you my first name, deeply," Vasquez says, rolling his eyes. "Don't worry, guero, by the time we reach this town we'll have you speaking in full sentences."

"I'll manage," Faraday says, opening his fly and getting down to his own business. Vasquez makes to leave but Faraday says, "Why _did_ Chisholm drag you outta the wilderness anyway?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Vasquez shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. He turns slightly away to give Faraday some privacy, but doesn't go back to the camp. “He’s desperate, probably.”

Faraday _tsks_. “Oh, it’s a fool’s errand for sure. I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have me by the short hairs.” 

“You can’t just buy a new horse?”

Faraday snorts, “Never, Wild Jack is my bosom companion.”

“Crazy horse for a crazy man,” Vasquez says.

Faraday laughs again and starts buttoning his fly, “You’re a bigger mystery n’ me,” he says blandly. “Why would the _dangerous outlaw_ bow to such an insane request? You coulda just shot him and Miss Emma in the heads and been on your way. Sam told me he went after you unarmed.”

“I believe the question was why did Chisholm go after _me_ , not why I followed _him_ ,” Vasquez says, mild as he can manage.

Faraday smirks. Vasquez realizes he does not like where this conversation is going.

“Why didn’t you just kill them?” he asks. “Woulda made your life easier, don’t you think?”

Vasquez huffs a bitter laugh. “Does it seem that way to you? To kill an unarmed man and a woman because it’s easier?”

“Well, no,” Faraday says, with a tilt of his head. “It just got me wondering. You killed a Texas Ranger down near San Antonio in a bar fight,” he raises one finger and then another as he ticks off the worst events of Vasquez’s life like he’s counting sheep, “You fled across, what, four states and territories, killing three more lawmen as you went, and I don’t even know how many horses you’ve stolen. Like you said, you got a reputation. What I wanna know is what stops a fella like you from blowing a man’s head off to save his own skin--”

Faraday grunts as Vasquez rushes him, knocking him back. Faraday’s eyes are wide as saucers and he lets out a hiss as they hit solid rock. 

“Keep talking, pinche chingado,” he snarls, the rage running all through him like a bolt of fire. He bars Faraday across the throat with one forearm, the other hand curled into his waistcoat. The bluff radiates heat like a stove, all the sunlight it’s soaked up during the day pouring over them both. Vasquez hopes it gives him blisters. “One more word and not even Chisholm can stop me from beating your ass into the dirt, you understand?”

Faraday is, for once in his life, silent. He’s red all the way up to his hairline, teeth bared and breathing hard. Vasquez waits for the insults, the fight, but Faraday just hangs there in his grip. His lips are parted and, quick as a viper, his tongue darts out and wets them. Vasquez can feel the pounding of his heart where his fist is clenched in Faraday's vest. 

They're pressed together from knees to shoulders. Vasquez feels a feverish sweat break out across the back of his neck. 

Faraday swallows hard, bringing Vasquez's attention back to his face.

"That a promise, hom-bray?" he says, mouth crooked in a grin. "If you wanted to get down to the dirt with me all you hadta do is ask."

Vasquez feels his face grow hot. He gives Faraday a shove, knocking the wind out of him, then drops him as he steps away. Faraday crouches, wheezing, but still manages to keep that stupid smirk on his face.

Vasquez wants to parry, shoot something back, but his tongue remains tied. Instead he spits at Faraday's feet and storms off. He thinks he hears him chuckle behind his back.

His ridiculous sisters are hundreds of miles away, and God does not hold court with the likes of Vasquez, but he's certain he can hear them all laughing along with Faraday as he heads back to the campsite.

  
  


It is funny, he thinks later, that some of the loudest, most violent experiences so quickly become blurred and reshuffled in recollection. He remembers sneaking into Rose Creek through the brush, taking his place around the back of the town’s single hotel, then sauntering around the edge of the porch while Chisholm makes his speech. He remembers the tension in the air pulling taut, time stretching out so that a single breath took hours--

Then Red Harvest drops a dead man from a rooftop and the world snaps back into place. There’s something not unlike joy in the frenetic pace of it, the act of besting these men. There’s lightning in his veins and thunder in his hands as he fires again and again and again. The Blackstone men start out strong but quickly become panicked, scattering, hiding, shooting. Perhaps they would have been successful against neat rows of soldiers marching into town, but against seven men with more audacity than sense they lose all composure. 

His guns are hot and at some point he winds up back-to-back with none other than Faraday, who grins at him like a lunatic before shooting a man off his horse and darting away.

He’s a better gunfighter than Vasquez thought he would be; quick, steady, and lethal. He’s a showman for sure ( _‘And you’ll be murdered... by the world’s greatest lover’_ , for God’s sake) but in the heat of battle he sheds most of the theatrics for brutal efficiency. 

In the end there are six Blackstone detectives dead or dying by his hand. He’s slightly nauseous, still keyed up and trembling slightly as the rush leaves his body, but he does not feel guilty. These men chose this path, and with the other six around him Vasquez feels something closer to righteousness. If that makes him a hypocrite, he thinks as the townsfolk come cautiously creeping out of hiding, then God can judge him as harshly as He likes. The citizens of Rose Creek are a meek bunch, terror in their eyes and more than a few black mourning bands in the crowd stand testament to Mrs. Cullen’s stories. 

Still, despite all their combined skill, one of Bogue’s men escapes, apparently due to Robicheaux’s rifle jamming up. There’s another, the Sheriff, who Chisholm sends off with a message for Bogue himself. Vasquez doesn’t understand his reasoning but makes no argument. There’s no time. They have a week, by Chisholm’s reckoning, to prepare this ragged little settlement for a full-on invasion. They barely have time to reload and saddle up before Chisholm, driven by some kind of magnetic force of will, has them heading off to the nearby mining camp to finish off any lingering hired guns.

On the way across the creek, Faraday canters up on Wild Jack and whistles to catch Vasquez’s attention.

“Try and keep up, muchacho,” he says, grinning like they didn’t just pass through the valley of death. 

“It’s not a contest,” Vasquez says, refusing to look at him, “You’d know if it was.”

“And how would I do that?”

“Because I would have beaten you awhile ago.”

Faraday scoffs, “In what world does six kills beat seven?”

Vasquez smirks, crooking his fingers until Faraday leans in a bit so Vasquez can speak to him at a lower volume.

“The world where I left you in the dirt with your dick hanging out.”

Billy picks that moment to turn in the saddle and tells them both to look sharp. Vasquez nods apologetically and spurs Cariña into a faster pace, rejoining the line ahead of Faraday. The satisfaction at Faraday’s expression of delighted surprise and frustration fills him with the fire of vindication.


	2. Chapter 2

After a morning of death and gunfire, sitting down for hours in the hotel’s dining room, pouring over sketchy maps of the town and commiserating with the remaining leadership feels like a welcome reprieve. Or rather, it does when Vasquez can quiet his nerves for a few moments at a time. His fingers itch for something to do and his focus is a skittish thing.

The others, save Chisholm, seem to be in the same boat. Goodnight in particular seems nervy and tight-lipped. Billy will not leave his side, even to partake of a drink; Vasquez wonders if that has something to do with how Faraday keeps sending strange glances their way, suspicious for some reason Vasquez isn’t privy to. He saw the three of them exchange words shortly after the battle, but he wasn’t close enough to hear. 

They stay at it until early evening, when the weight of the day finally settles on their shoulders and even the implacable Chisholm slumps in his seat and requests a whiskey from the barkeep. 

He has a little money, hoarded not because he is a careful spender but rather because he has no place to spend it. He hasn’t been able to waltz into the nearest general store for some months. He's mainly been trading for bullets and other necessities, or simply stealing them if the opportunity strikes. For a man of his size he's a remarkable sneak-thief, plus most folks won't tangle with a fellow of over six feet when he has to use more aggressive tactics.

The little cabin where Chisholm had found him was a peaceful refuge, despite the corpse. The former resident had been a keen homesteader and left Vasquez many little gifts in the form of preserved foodstuffs. It was the best few days he’d had in months.

Still, it had been a  _ shack _ , and Vasquez has not been living like a wild animal by choice. He slides a coin across the bar and inquires about a bath.

There's a room in the rear of the building outfitted with a stout copper tub. A boy scurries in and out of the room, hauling buckets of steaming water, dumping them in until Vasquez deems it deep enough. The soap provided by the proprietor is lumpy and unscented, the washrags frayed and thin, but he feels like a king as he scrapes off weeks of dirt and soaks luxuriously when he's finished. Mother of God, he feels like a human being for the first time in ages. If he is to go to his death in this hopeless endeavor, at least he won't die looking and smelling like a bear. He shaves with his hunting knife, and it's a sloppy job, but he enjoys the feeling nonetheless.

Afterwards, he grimaces at the sight of his dirty clothing, sitting folded on the floor. He thinks briefly of finding a laundress but decides against it; he has no other trousers to wear while the pair he's wearing are being washed. Instead he dunks his underthings in the bucket of rinsing water and gives them a rigorous swishing around and wringing out. Still sweat-stained and frayed, but better than nothing. It’ll have to do.

The room given to him by the hotel proprietor is small, with two beds crammed in there despite the lack of square footage. It’s clean, at least. The homespun bedspread is soft under his hands.

Something swoops in his gut as he sits on the mattress. He clutches his wet laundry and his saddlebags close in his lap. After all he’s seen and done in the past few months a simple, homely little bedroom is making him emotional. He’s full of real food, he’s clean, and he’s going to sleep in a bed. He can take a break from looking over his shoulder. That alone almost makes this whole wild endeavor seem a little more worth the trouble. 

His goodwill and peace with the world at large is shattered when none other than Faraday comes bursting through the door, swinging a large canvas bag and shouting over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls back into the hallway, “I didn’t want to share with you and the Hairpin Killer, either.”

A voice, presumably Robicheaux’s, shouts something in French from down the hall. Vasquez only speaks Spanish and English but he knows obscenities when he hears them. He laughs and Faraday turns to face him, snorting like a startled horse.

“Oh, damn, didn’t know you were in here.”

“This is my room, guero, where else would I be?” 

For a moment a strange expression crosses Faraday’s face, but then he puts on a sunny grin and flings his bag onto the empty bed.

“ _ Our _ room, a-mee-go. Hope you don’t mind sharing, seeing as I was just unjustly evicted.”

“Unjustly, por supuesto.”

“‘Poor’  _ what  _ now?” Faraday drops down onto his bed and starts pulling his boots off. “If we’re gonna be sharing you can’t talk Spanish to me just ‘cause you know I don’t understand it.”

“So  _ learn _ , guero. Hablaré como quiera en mi propio dormitorio, gracias.”

“I am beset on all sides by wicked men and charlatans,” Faraday says, raising his face and hands to the heavens in a pleading gesture. 

“No por primera vez, estoy seguro.”

Faraday groans and throws up his hands. He scoots to the end of his bed, the frame squeaking all the way, and bats the door shut.

A slight thrill chases up his spine as the door snaps closed, leaving him shut in with Faraday. 

They sit for just a moment, each seeming to size the other up. Then Vasquez gets the itch to do something, fill the silence, so he unwinds his wet underthings and shakes them out, then hangs them over the foot of the bed to dry.

“What’s that, your drawers?” Faraday asks, opening up his bag and digging through it, pulling out wrinkled shirts and loose socks.

“As you see,” Vasquez says.

“There’s a washerwoman hereabouts, so I was gonna have her do my stuff. Why don’t you throw in with me? If my things need a wash then yours prob’ly do too.”

Vasquez bites his cheek and debates various answers. His pride doesn’t like the idea of admitting to Faraday this is an impossibility unless society has decided that men wandering around in their underwear is acceptable behavior. He could lie but Faraday seems the type to pick and niggle at a ‘No’ answer until the truth comes spilling out anyway.

Frankly, the idea of chasing lies around exhausts him. He sighs.

“Thanks, but no. I don’t have any spares,” he says with a crooked smile, tugging on the fabric of his trousers.

He expects jeering, barbs aimed at his current impoverished state, but Faraday shrugs like Vasquez just said something silly.

“So? You’re about… just a hair or two over six foot? Shit, just borrow some of mine.”

Vasquez raises a brow. He’s surprised enough that he doesn’t refuse outright.

“You’re sure, guero?”

“Well, yeah, it’s not like it’s much trouble,” Faraday says, rolling his eyes. He picks up a pair of blue jeans, examines them, and then tosses them to Vasquez. “There, those are the least filthy. You can give ‘em back when yours are clean.”

It’s just a pair of trousers, but Vasquez feels unsettled all the same, and not unpleasantly.

“My thanks,” he says. “I’ll return the favor when I have the chance.”

“Yeah, yeah, guarding my back from that Bogue fella and all his greasy little toadies will do,” Faraday says, flapping a hand. “You don’t need to go into some kinda life debt over a pair of jeans.”

Vasquez hates the swell of gratitude rising in his chest, both for the gesture and for Faraday’s brushing off of any significance. The guero has a gift for wrong-footing him. First he’s just another drunk insulting his heritage, then he’s the charming magician of their party, spinning tales and card tricks, then he’s a ruthless gunfighter, then a generous comrade in arms. 

All the while he’s still by far the best-looking man Vasquez has laid eyes on in too long. 

And there’s no small chance they’ll both be dead in seven days.

It’s a disaster. 

Faraday gets up and starts shucking his clothes in a rapid, businesslike fashion. Vasquez starts and looks politely away. 

“Get your stuff off, I wanna get this mess to the laundress before too late,” he says, dropping his trousers and kicking them off. Vasquez mutters an agreement and starts to undress, that strange thrill zinging up his spine as Faraday bares more skin. 

_ It’s nothing,  _ he thinks as he unbuttons his suspenders.  _ This means nothing.  _

He pulls his shirt off and tosses it on the growing pile of dirty clothing. When he looks up he catches Faraday’s eyes. The other man looks Vasquez up and down and grins a dirty, wildcat’s grin.

And then he starts to redress in slightly cleaner clothes like nothing happened.

_ Goddamn him directly to hell, _ Vasquez thinks furiously, snatching up the loaner trousers and shoving his legs into them.  _ And me right after.  _  
  


While Chisholm, Robicheaux, and Faraday have the unenviable task of shouting the men of Rose Creek into fighters, Vasquez takes point on remodeling the burnt out church into a serviceable fortress. Secretly, Vasquez thinks he has the easier job. It’s hard work; Bogue and his men were ruthless and the little chapel is little more than a sooty husk of itself. Still, the repetitive motion of  _ measure, measure, cut, sand, hammer _ brings him back to a calmer time. The men and women he finds himself working with are congenial types, friendly and open despite all the blood spilt in their town. Labor has that effect on people, he’s found. It leaves aches and dust in your eyes but the simple satisfaction of seeing a thing become whole does the soul good.

Vasquez hopes Faraday doesn’t mind that the jeans he lent him are now thoroughly infused with sawdust and sweat.

He doesn’t see any of his comrades until suppertime at the hotel, and when he does he knows he missed something important.

When Chisholm and Faraday enter the dining room, Vasquez and Jack Horne are already there, sprawled in their chairs and nursing heavily watered whiskey. Chisholm comes first, nodding at them before going to speak with the bartender. Faraday comes next, the heels of his boots drumming loud on the floor and a scowl on his face. He drops into the seat next to Vasquez and slumps back.

“Helluva day,” he groans, taking his hat off and tossing it on the table. “Wanna trade jobs? I’d much rather do something with a  _ point  _ for a change.”

“The farmers not up to your standards, guero?” Vasquez asks.

“Shit, my standards weren’t high to start with, but somehow they still managed to disappoint,” Faraday growls. “Gimme a slug of that.”

Vasquez slides him the water pitcher and an empty glass. 

“Unbelievable,” Faraday mutters, pouring out one glass and chugging it down and then filling his glass again. “You’d think these people could at least  _ hunt  _ or something, but it’s as if they’ve never shot in their lives. It’s pathetic.”

“These are farmers, son,” Horne entreats in his reedy voice, “The meek of the Earth. You can’t go expecting miracles after a single day.”

“Well, that’s too bad because it’ll  _ take  _ a fuckin’ miracle to get these people anywhere close to ready,” Faraday snaps.

“You watch your mouth,” Horne warns. “There are ladies in the room.” He tilts his head over to the bar, where the proprietor’s wife is chatting quietly with Chisholm as she doles out drink. 

“That’s mighty rich comin’ from you, you great stinkin’ bear of a--”

“Guero,” Vasquez butts in before Faraday continues, “Just get a drink. We’re all tired.”

Faraday goes red and opens his mouth as if to keep going, but then he huffs and pushes out of his seat. As he stomps over to the bar Horne huffs a laugh. 

“You ain’t need to rein him in,” the old man says. “Not your responsibility.”

Vasquez shrugs. “No,” he agrees, “But the drink will keep him quiet for a few minutes. I’ve had a long day.”

“Haven’t we all,” says Robicheaux, entering the room with Billy at his side. “I imagine Faraday already told you about our sharpshooting lesson?”

“He did,” Vasquez says. “I understand it did not go well.”

“At least they  _ stayed  _ for you people,” Billy gripes. “I tried to show them some knife work and they ran like rabbits.”

“Pearls before swine, Billy. Don’t blame yourself,” Robicheaux says. 

“I  _ don’t _ ,” Billy snaps. “I need a drink.”

Robicheaux pats him on the back and heads to the bar. He passes Faraday, heading back with two glasses and a bottle of gin. Surprisingly, the two don’t say a word to each other but Faraday shoots Robicheaux a look that could cut stone. For his part, Robicheaux brushes past him like he’s not even there. When Faraday sits down again he’s still scowling. 

“Here,” he says brusquely, shoving a glass at Vasquez and pouring him a couple of fingers of gin. He gives himself a more generous pour and throws it back with a grimace. 

Billy looks faintly murderous. 

When Chisholm and Robicheaux return to the table with drinks of their own the conversation flows more smoothly, greased by the easy companionship the two of them share. Eventually Red Harvest joins them but refuses to partake in any alcohol, speaking only to Chisholm in the low tones of his mother tongue. 

But he’s hardly the least communicative member of their little party. There’s a palpable tension between Faraday, Robicheaux, and Billy that hangs in the air like a sour note. 

Vasquez likes Robicheaux and Billy. Robicheaux is intelligent and has an easy sense of humor. Billy, though much less talkative, has a searing wit that left Vasquez in fits of laughter more than once during their journey to the town. He can’t figure out why Faraday seems to have taken a dislike to them. 

Whatever it is, it comes to a head as each of them report on their work for the day.

“It will take three or four of our days, at least,” Vasquez says, after explaining the construction being done on the church. 

“Can you get it done on time?” Chisholm asks, squinting at the rough drawing Vasquez sketched out, showing the steeple, the fire damage, and some additions he’s worked out to make the building more defensible. 

“Yes, barely,” he says. “The shooter’s nest here,” he taps the steeple, “Is of high importance, but I do not think we can provide complete cover.”

“Well, do the best you can. Goody, you don’t need anything fancy to shoot from, do you?” Sam smiles at Robicheaux. 

“For you, I will make due,” Robicheaux says, grinning amiably around his cigarette. 

Faraday scoffs.

“I got to thinking,” he says, setting his empty glass down with a muted  _ thump _ , “That maybe we need more snipers. For safety’s sake.”

“Do you have something to say?” Billy snaps. The entire table turns to look at him. 

“I’m saying we should have more snipers,” Faraday says with a shrug. “For safety against unlucky circumstances. Jammed weapons and whatnot.”

“And what does that mean?” Billy grits out.

“Now let’s just--” Robicheaux starts, but he’s interrupted. 

“Unless our men suddenly gain expertise in sharp-shooting,” Sam says, cutting through the tight silence, “Turning them all to sniping probably won’t do us any good. We’ll need the best ones down on the ground with Vasquez in the church and in the field past the trenches. That-” he puts up a hand and plows on when Faraday opens his big mouth to protest, “Is what we agreed on, is it not?”

“We agreed to use the best of our abilities to win this fight,” Faraday jumps in, “Or at least  _ I _ did. I may not be the Angel of Death,” he sends a cutting glance Robicheaux’s way, “But at the very least I can keep my head on straight in a crisis.”

“I didn’t see you complaining when I took out the stragglers down at the mines,” Robicheaux says, blowing a cloud of smoke and sneering. “If you want to charge in with the vanguard, be my guest. We’ll see how long you can keep your head, then.”

Faraday snarls and makes as if to stand, but Chisholm slaps a hand on the table, making the flatware clatter and all the gathered men jump in their seats.

“I won’t have this,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice but his tone is ironshod. “Any man who don’t wanna be here can go at any time. Nobody’s sworn any oath to me or to this town. The only thing I will not abide is us losing what chance we got because of bullshit infighting. Is that understood?”

Faraday crosses his arms and glares daggers at Robicheaux but he stays quiet. Billy glares right back while Robicheaux says something about putting the cause before anything else.

Vasquez exchanges glances with Red Harvest, hoping to find some kind of hint as to what the hell is going on between the three of them, but the young man just gives a tiny shrug: he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. 

Vasquez thinks Red Harvest is probably wiser than his years.

Chisholm brings the meeting to a close, probably to head off any more petty bullshit, and declares that he is heading to bed.

“I suggest y’all do the same,” he says with a pointed look at Faraday. “We start digging trenches tomorrow.”

Vasquez follows Chisholm’s lead fairly quickly; he truly is tired after a long day and he has no interest in being drawn into a fight. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. Vasquez is itching to know what’s going on between his fellows to make everyone so upset and, more importantly, how it could affect the upcoming ordeal. 

_ And you’re a terrible gossip _ , says his sister Gertrudis’s voice in the back of his head.

Vasquez huffs and shakes himself. He’s just been starved for company, he thinks. Being around a lot of other people after months of near solitude has left him feeling strange, like he can’t quite fit right in the roles he’s meant to play. Perhaps the madness never truly left him, he thinks. His sanity’s out there in the woods where Chisholm found him.

His suspicions are confirmed when he enters the room he’s sharing with Faraday and finds his clothes, laundered and folded, sitting neatly on his bed. Immediately he shuts the door behind him and strides over to grab up a pair of socks, clean for the first time in months. The various small holes have been darned and they feel almost new as he smooths them between his hands. 

He has gone mad. He’s lost his fool mind. That must be why he’s eyes are burning and he feels faintly ill over a pair of clean socks.

He gathers himself and starts changing out of Faraday’s loaned clothes when the man himself enters the room, slamming the door behind him. He’s still red in the face and he flexes his fingers like they’re longing for a weapon. 

He catches sight of Vasquez buttoning up his cleaned drawers and huffs.

“That cajun son of a bitch is gonna get us killed,” he snarls, dropping down onto his bed, upsetting his own, larger pile of fresh laundry.

“What is this about, guero?” Vasquez asks. He throws on his shirt and revels in the feel of clean cotton. 

“Did you not see what happened yesterday?” Faraday barrels on as he wrestles his boots off. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Vasquez says. Faraday’s anger seems to fill up the room and it makes Vasquez uneasy.

“The so called  _ Angel of Death _ let one of Bogue’s men ride off without so much as trying to graze ‘em. I watched him stand there like a fuckin’ idiot with his pants down, not taking a single shot,” he says, chucking a liberated boot and starting to work on the other. “I was right next to him, watching Bogue’s lacky ride off. I told him to take the shot and he just  _ stood  _ there! Shit, a child could have taken it!” He throws the other boot.

“I heard, guero, we all did,” Vasquez says. “His rifle jammed, Billy said. It happens.”

“Bullshit,” Faraday spits, “Billy’s a liar and Goodnight’s a coward.”

“That’s a serious thing to say,” Vasquez says after a moment, because he can’t think of anything else. The truth is, he doesn’t think Faraday’s lying. Whether or not Robicheaux’s rifle jammed at the worst time is impossible to know, but it’s clear that Faraday believes what he’s saying.

“He covered us well when we took the mines,” Vasquez continues. “Whatever came over him him, if anything, is passed on.”

Faraday shoots him a venomous look and starts stripping. 

“You have just as much riding on this as any of us,” he says as he peels off his shirt and drops it onto the floor. “It don’t make you nervous that one of your partners could be the death of you because he’s too lily-livered to take a potshot at someone who deserves it? What are you, suicidal?”

Vasquez’s face goes hot and he clenches his jaw. “I’d listen to Chisholm if I were you and save your fighting for Bogue.”

Faraday runs a hand through his hair, leaving the ginger curls sticking up in every direction. “I’m half thinking of just taking my horse back and lighting out for… anywhere but here.”

“Not home?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t go home?”

“Friend, I haven’t been  _ home  _ in eleven years and I have no plans of going back any time soon,” Faraday says with a bitter smile.

That gives Vasquez pause. “Where is it?”

“Rutherfordton, in North Carolina.”

Vasquez shakes his head, “Never heard of it.”

Faraday lifts a finger and says,  _ “Exactly.” _

He doesn’t elaborate and Vasquez decides not to press.

“I would return home,” he says simply. It’s still warm, too warm to get under the blankets, so he lays down on top of the covers and puts his hands behind his head. It’s still relatively early but he’s tired and pleasantly achy from a long day of building. Stretching out in his clean clothes on a soft bed is as good as heaven to him. 

“And where is home for you?” Faraday asks. Vasquez is looking at the ceiling but he can hear Faraday shuffle around, presumably preparing for bed. The room darkens as he turns down the lamp.

“Near Monterrey, in Mexico, but I lived around San Antonio for… almost six years now,” he says, idly scratching his chest. “Not all the time. I went where the work was.”

“Hah, so much for not being a  _ Texican _ ,” Faraday says.

“Watch your mouth, cabrón,” says Vasquez, smiling and closing his eyes. “I’m tired but I’ll beat you if I have to.”

Suddenly the mattress dips. Vasquez opens his eyes to find Faraday hovering over him, hands planted on either side of his head. He’s also mostly naked, wearing only his drawers. 

“A la verga!” he stutters, making an abortive attempt to sit up. 

“How tired we talkin’ here?” Faraday says, and Vasquez feels the mattress dip again when he brings one knee up to balance on the edge of the bed. 

“Guero,” Vasquez says, flush breaking out across his chest and face, “What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” Faraday grins and leans in. “C’mon, it ain’t that late, and I know you’re good for it.”

A thrill races up Vasquez’s spine. “Is that so?” he asks. Faraday is practically on top of him but Vasquez is strong, maybe  _ stronger.  _ He could throw him off, onto the floor. 

Or… or he could grab him about those broad shoulders and pull him down, kiss him on his stupid, smart mouth. 

He’s caged in, a man very nearly holding him down, a man he does not know well. It’s been months since he last touched anyone save for a perfunctory handshake or tap on the shoulder. It’s been longer since he was this close to another man outside of a fight. 

Sometimes, out in the wild, he wondered if he was dead already and simply hadn’t realized it yet.

He snakes a hand around Faraday’s shoulders and pulls him down. The kiss hurts a little, teeth catching awkwardly before Faraday braces himself again. 

“Knew you’d be up for it,” he says, grinning.

“Shut the  _ fuck  _ up,” Vasquez snarls, and yanks him down again, raking his fingers up into his hair and down his back. Faraday shuts the fuck up and lets him, only drawing away for a second to get both legs up on the bed, straddling Vasquez’s hips. 

Faraday’s a big man, just as heavy as he looks, so Vasquez pushes him until they roll to their sides. The new position frees up Faraday’s hands, and he wastes no time in putting them to use. He’s greedy, grabbing whatever flesh he can get to before yanking open Vasquez’s drawers and sticking his hands down the back to palm his ass. 

But if Faraday’s greedy, Vasquez is gluttonous. He throws a leg over Faraday’s hip and drags him in close. It’s awkward and gets both their arms wedged in between them, and the bed really is too small for two men their size, but he doesn’t care. Faraday is hot to the touch, soft belly and hard shoulders, smooth back and rough jaw, all the things Vasquez has desperately missed. He’s hard already but he thinks he could go hours with just this, getting handfuls of skin and kissing until his mouth has gone numb. 

Faraday isn’t as patient, however, and starts shoving at Vasquez’s drawers until he relents and lets him strip them off entirely. Vasquez also pulls off his shirt, and while he does that Faraday kicks off his own underthings.

Naked, Vasquez clamors on top so he can press himself all along Faraday’s body like a cat. He was sure Faraday would fight being pinned down but the other man practically melts into it, allowing Vasquez to wedge himself between his legs. 

“ _ Fuuuck _ me,” Faraday goans when Vasquez lets him come up for air. 

“Maybe not tonight, guero,” Vasquez says, grinning when Faraday colors and scoffs.

“It’s just an expression, Jesus,” he mutters.

“ _ Jesús _ ,” Vasquez corrects, tucking his face into Faraday’s neck to worry at the skin there with his teeth. 

“‘Hey’ what?”

“Jesús is my second name,” he says, lifting his face to smirk. “Just so you say it right when I do get around to fucking you.”

Faraday chokes on nothing, goes beet red, and then laughs out loud.

“Ha! You should be so lucky. Is that how you talk to the ladies where you come from? Christ a-mighty, no wonder you had to resort to men instead,” he says, then squirms when Vasquez reaches down to cup him between his legs.

“Ladies like me just fine, guero,” Vasquez says, rolling Faraday’s stones and relishing the little twitches he makes. “And  _ you  _ propositioned me, remember?”

Faraday grins, showing his teeth. “Ain’t like you’re saying ‘no’, hom-bray.”

There’s a few more minutes of groping and sniping, right up until Faraday twists them around again so Vasquez is on his back. 

“Can I suck you?” he asks, already sliding down and wrapping one hand around Vasquez’s cock.

Surprised that he’d even offered, Vasquez just nods and watches as Faraday slides down. 

Faraday apparently likes playing the Magician in bed as much as out of it. He takes Vasquez down his throat in one go just to show off, making him gasp and grab the bed linens in his fists, then pulls off and plays around down there with his hands like he’s shuffling his well-loved cards. By the time he finally gets his mouth on him again, Vasquez is ready to damn his pride and start begging. 

“How you doin’ up there, muchacho?” Faraday asks at one point, pulling off Vasquez’s cock with a grin and a wink. 

Vasquez wants to say something clever, something to bring himself back from the brink of falling to pieces like a virgin, but all he can get out is: “ _ Bueno,  _ good. Keep going.”

Faraday laughs softly. “Yes,  _ sir _ ,” he says, and ducks back down. He’s joking, but it sends a little thrill up Vasquez’s spine all the same. 

It’s not just getting his cocked sucked. Vasquez  _ can’t stop touching _ . He’s not a reserved lover, but it seems his hands have taken on a life of their own. He can’t keep himself from carding his fingers through Faraday’s hair and stroking along his shoulders, the back of his neck, his arms. Faraday is just big enough that Vasquez’s hips and thighs twinge a little at the stretch, but it’s a good pain, keeping him from coming too soon. 

Faraday gives it his best: sucking and licking, hands everywhere. He finally lets Vasquez come with one hand on his rocks, the other jacking him slow and tight, his lush mouth suckling the sweet spot on the underside of Vasquez’s cockhead. He gets spend all over his belly but it’s good, too good, for him to care too much about the inevitable cleanup. 

He rests for a moment, breathing deep. Faraday keeps stroking him gently until he winces and pulls away. 

“Been a long time for you, fella?” Faraday says, teasing. 

“Shut up,” Vasquez says, a silly grin plastering itself across his face.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to the man who just sucked your dick,” Faraday says, giving Vasquez a sharp pinch on the thigh.

“Ay, chingón!” Vasquez hisses and tries to cuff Faraday around the head. He misses, and Faraday laughs at him. Still cursing, Vasquez manages to pull him up to eye level and roll him over. Faraday goes with it, snickering all the way until Vasquez kisses him hard. 

Unwilling to be outdone by a grinning jackal, Vasquez kisses Faraday until he’s sighing into each pass of his mouth before shifting downwards to his jawline and neck. Everyone he’s ever slept with has been sensitive around the ears and in the hollows of their throats, and Faraday is no exception. He shivers and twitches as Vasquez mouths down his neck and lets out little helpless noises when he gently closes his teeth around his earlobe. 

Just as before, he can’t stop touching, filling his hands with Faraday’s skin. He’s strong, firm all over under a layer of soft skin and hair. He’s got scars too, plenty of knicks around his knuckles and what looks suspiciously like a healed knife wound arcing from his left collarbone down towards his sternum. Vasquez kisses it and looks up curiously at Faraday’s face. 

“Let’s just say you’re not the only one who’s gotten in a few bar fights that ended badly,” he says.

Vasquez busies himself by tasting his way across Faraday’s chest and belly, then down, down, to the musky crease where his thigh meets his groin. 

“Fuck, you look good down there,” Faraday mutters, raking his fingers through Vasquez’s hair. He strokes along his jaw and thumbs Vasquez’s bottom lip, the pads of his fingers calloused but gentle. It’s sweet, too sweet. Vasquez sucks his thumb into his mouth and bites down, just enough that Faraday groans and rolls his hips in his eagerness.

Vasquez isn’t the type to play around. He wastes no time in showing Faraday everything he’s got, stroking his cock firmly and sucking greedily on the head. He’s always liked doing this, turning a man into a moaning, writhing creature, exploring with his hands and tongue, learning what kind of touch elicits what sounds. Faraday, for all his bravado, is easy. Even better, he’s  _ fun _ . He reacts instantly and keeps up a constant stream of dirty chatter, appreciative with his words and his skittering, grasping hands. 

Vasquez sucks him slow and deep, rolling his balls before sneaking a finger down south to stroke across his asshole. That makes Faraday jump and hiss, but he doesn’t pull away when he does it again. 

Vasquez pulls off and smirks. “Te gusta eso, guero?”

“Shit, you know I can’t understand you,” Faraday says, still rolling his hips into the pressure.

Vasquez keeps grinning even as he sucks him down again. He’s never liked taking cock all the way down his throat, but he gets just close enough so that Faraday starts cursing and muttering  _ C’mon, c’mon, please.  _ He does it a couple more times before he finally takes pity and draws back up, sucking and tonguing Faraday’s cockhead until he groans and releases in his mouth.

Vasquez swallows quickly to get rid of the taste and wipes a hand across his face before coming back up to kiss Faraday roughly. Some men react poorly to being kissed by the same mouth that just sucked them, but Vasquez is delighted to find that Faraday leans into it, stroking his tongue along Vasquez’s and sighing sweetly. 

Vasquez likes this part, the afterglow. He settles down next to Faraday and props his head up on one arm. He watches Faraday breathe through the remnants of his climax; he’s nice to look at, solidly built and handsome. He sighs one more time and scrubs his hand across his eyes before sitting up. 

“Shame these beds are so tiny,” Faraday says as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He fishes around on the floor for a minute before coming up with a threadbare handkerchief. He tosses it to Vasquez, who uses it to clean up his stomach. He stands and stretches, then plods over to his own bed and flops down. “Mind getting that light?”

Vasquez ignores the little stab of disappointment and does as he’s bid. He blows out the lamp and crawls back into bed alone. 

“G’night, muchacho,” Faraday says blearily, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders and turning his back to Vasquez.

“Goodnight, guero,” Vasquez says. 

Faraday falls asleep soon after, but Vasquez lays awake for some time, watching the shadows move across the ceiling and nursing a strange, hollow feeling in his chest until he finally passes out.

  
  


When he wakes the next morning Faraday is gone, his bed rumpled and his canvas bag left open on the floor. Pushing through the telltale aches in his shoulders and thighs, Vasquez dresses and staggers downstairs to join the others for a breakfast of hoecakes and coffee. 

Faraday sits at the table between Sam and Billy, silently sipping his coffee and gazing out the windows with the bleary-eyed stare of one who does not usually rise so early. He doesn’t greet Vasquez when he sits at the table, save for a slight nod. Jack Horne and Red Harvest are both absent, probably seeing to their own breakfasts out in the fields somewhere. Vasquez tamps down the urge to make conversation and focuses on his food. 

They’re all pretty quiet save for the occasional request for the carafe of coffee or comment regarding their plans for the day. No one asks how any of the others slept. No one mentions any suspicious noises they heard during the night. Vasquez resolves to forget about the whole thing. It was a good lay, but that’s all. It probably won’t happen again.

Then Faraday catches his eye and  _ winks  _ at him, the little shit. 

  
  


He and Faraday are separated for the largest part of the day. Vasquez heads out to the fields on the northern side of town with Chisholm, Billy, Horne, and a number of the liberated miners while Robicheaux and Faraday go back to their shooting lessons. Chisholm sends Red Harvest out scouting and then takes to directing the digging. It’s a miserably long day, digging trenches and arranging the miner’s tents into a veritable labyrinth of snares, hides, and explosive traps. They won’t set the dynamite for another day or two, but the groundwork has to be laid out in advance. It’s grueling work, and more than once they end up squabbling over the placement of something. 

By the time lunch rolls around, Vasquez is irritable and tired. He envies the men still working on the church; woodworking is highly preferable to endless digging and fussing. He ends up eating half-sprawled in the grass with Billy, who thankfully appreciates a nice, long silence. The women from town bring out bread and beans and they find themselves joined by none other than Mrs. Cullen, who plunks down next to them with a small basket of apples.

“Many thanks,” says Billy, accepting an apple with more grace than he’s shown anyone else in the past week.

“Thank you,” Vasquez echoes when she tosses one to him as well. It’s fresh, golden-red, and warm from the sun. He devours it with great relish.

“Want another?” she says when he finishes, offering another fruit with a bemused smile. He grins sheepishly and takes it, eating slower this time. He’s still not used to having as much food as he likes, which is a lot.  _ Eat me out of house and home, _ his Mamá used to say.  _ It’s lucky I only have one boy, you eat as much as all three of the girls.  _

She’s been dead for nearly four years, his Mamá. It’s just Tía Inez and Pilar, his youngest sister, back on the homestead now. 

He’s struck with an ache, thinking of his mother and family and  _ home _ , and for a moment he has to look away, towards the horizon. He doesn’t want Mrs. Cullen or Billy to see his face and read something there he’d rather keep private.

“How long were you,” Billy gestures vaguely to the mountains, “Out there?”

Either Vasquez isn’t as subtle as he thinks, or Billy can read minds.

“How long were  _ you  _ out there?” he asks back, aiming for coolness and still coming out prickly.

“Almost two years,” Billy says. 

“So long!” Mrs. Cullen exclaims.

“Wasn’t so bad. Quiet, mostly,” says Billy with a shrug.

Two years. Vasquez has been on the run for less than half that and most of the time he felt as though he was either going to drop dead of exhaustion or tear himself to pieces in despair. 

“I… left San Antonio in January. Early January,” he says, answering Billy’s penetrating stare. 

Billy shrugs again. “Not very long, then.”

“Seems too long to me,” Mrs. Cullen says, firmly. “I remember coming out west when I was a little girl. Living out in the wild like that ain’t easy.”

“Better than prison,” Billy says. “Better than the rope.”

They all go quiet after that. 

Later, after the sun has set, Faraday catches up to him as they shuffle back up the main road towards the hotel. He slings an arm around his shoulders, all comradely affection. 

“Looks like you all got rode hard and put away wet!” he says cheerily. “Wish I could say the same.”

“You had better luck with your students today?”

“Barely, barely. We’ll make gunfighters outta them yet, as long as the Blackstones move slow and don’t try to, y’know, shoot back or anything.”

“Your faith is so inspiring,” Vasquez says. He has half a mind to peel Faraday’s arm off and put a little space between them, but then Faraday leans in close and mutters in his ear. “Only thing that  _ inspired  _ me was thinking about having another go with you tonight. What do you think about that, partner?”

“Buy me a drink and we’ll see, guerito,” Vasquez says, before he can stop himself. 


End file.
